


All of the Hours You Keep

by Skylark



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Male Character, Compare and Contrast, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Hair-pulling, Happy Ending, Healthy Relationships, Homophobia, Implied Blue/Gansey/Noah, Kissing, M/M, Multi, One-Sided Relationship, POV Third Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5170997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I missed out on a lot when I was alive.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	All of the Hours You Keep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [within_a_dream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/gifts).



> Thank you to [Ouroboros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ouroboros), my beta, and to my dear recipient for letting me tell you about my favorite raven boy. [Title credit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_pZ2bUkUKXs) (though all of this artist's songs suit Noah).

The moment their lips touch, Noah realizes that he's made a mistake.

Barrington makes a gasping noise against his mouth, like a fish exposed to air, and his whole body snaps taut. Noah closes his eyes and forces himself to hold his ground. _Just this,_ he thinks, feverish. _Just give me this._

There's no way to bluff his way out of this one, not like all the subtle overtures he's made before. There's a beat where Noah regrets everything that has led him to this moment—all the times he followed Barrington as he stole trinkets from the dollar store, or broke into libraries and people's homes in the name of ley line research; every time he let him copy his homework. 

Barrington's posture doesn't soften, and eventually Noah pulls back, eyes downcast. His lips are wet, and he resists the impulse to lick them.

When he looks up Barrington is watching him with bright-eyed, calculating interest. It's not unlike the way he looks at the girls he develops passing crushes on. Noah blinks, too bewildered to be hopeful.

"So," he says after a heavy pause. "You're gay."

Noah knows better than to try and clarify; Barrington is an impatient person. "Yeah."

"And you like me."

Noah hesitates again, considering the weight of the words he's leaving unsaid, before he nods.

Barrington reaches up to touch his lips. They're wet too, blooming pink under his fingertips. _I did that,_ Noah thinks.

"Kiss me again, Czerny," he says, and the familiar tone—thoughtlessly commanding because he can't imagine being disobeyed—pulls Noah forward like a kite being tugged by its string.

Noah _wants_ , so very badly—to touch and be touched, to be _seen_ instead of glanced at. The pressure of his want thrums inside of his ribcage like a bird fighting to escape. It feels like that now as he's pushed down between Barrington's legs.

 _Run,_ the bird is saying. 

_I'm trying,_ he tells it.

Barrington has such nice hands, indoors-pale, soft and fastidiously kept. Noah has watched them spread maps out and pin them flat against the floor, and the thought of Barrington pressing _him_ down like that always makes him flush hot and cold all over.

Noah discovers that in reality, his touch isn't soft at all. His breathing is heavy and fast, and his hands tremble before they fist in his hair. Noah makes a wounded noise and Barrington flinches, his mouth falling open.

"Fuck," Barrington hisses, "that feels good." Hope flowers in Noah's chest at that, a sick, bright feeling.

It's not like Noah's done this before. It's not like he can be gentle when Barrington won't be gentle with _him,_ thrusting with a broken rhythm into Noah's mouth—when it's all Noah can do just to breathe. Still he tries, lapping at the head when he's given enough room, hollowing his cheeks when he can remember to. He wants so badly for it to be good.

Noah looks up and sees the sharp jut of his jaw, the tension in the line of his neck as he struggles to tip over the edge. He won't look down, no matter how hard Noah works. It's like Noah isn't there at all.

The taste of it is flat and bitter on the back of his tongue, and Noah flinches and falls still. Barrington's groan is low and heartfelt and the sound makes him squirm, his skin feeling tight and hot like a sunburn. His heart is pounding and he's flushed red from desire and lack of oxygen. He feels like he'll die if he isn't touched right now.

Instead Barrington releases his hair, and the sudden absence of pain makes Noah shudder.

His throat feels raw and strange. He rests his forehead against Barrington's bare thigh, just above the rumpled edge of his pushed-down pants, and tries to catch his breath. He wonders how weird it would be if he got himself off right now, wonders if Barrington would hate him for it.

Then he feels a clumsy hand petting at his hair. It's not like before—this touch is awkward instead of cruel, an attempt at gratitude from a person long out of practice. Noah looks up and finds Barrington looking at him, finally. His expression is flushed, wide-eyed, edged with greed.

It isn't quite what he wants, but it's the closest he's ever gotten, and Noah is used to compromise.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There are several types of grocery stores. Which one a person frequents depends on what kind of person they are, with what kind of a budget. The one that Noah is in now is the kind he'd never have gone to before he died, with a yellowing linoleum floor and claustrophobic aisles. Blue stands out here the way she stands out anywhere, a brightly-colored dot in the middle of a mundane sea.

She doesn't seem to feel out of place, though. Her eyes flick back and forth across the shelves on either side of the aisle in a way that indicates mastery of her environment. Her movements brook no disagreement, and the confidence of her gestures draws Noah's eye without effort.

Noah doesn't go out of his way to offer his opinions, instead content with watching Blue pluck things from the shelves based on some mysterious internal judgement pattern. Cashews, candles, ice cream, paper cups—and then, after a beat of hesitation, a small container of mint jelly.

They make their way through the checkout aisle, Noah plucking at the gossip magazines while Blue fishes through her purse for exact change. She bundles her small collection of purchases into her backpack before unchaining her bicycle from the rack in front of the store. Noah stands on the back wheel as she takes them back to Monmouth Manufacturing, wanting to know how the wind will feel against his skin. Compared to riding in The Pig, this way is quieter, softer. The breeze slips past his arms and squirms underneath his clothes as Noah cranes his neck back, looking at the sunset-tinged clouds passing overhead.

It feels nice. Blue's soft hair flicking against his hands as they rest on her shoulders feels nice, too. And Noah doesn't weigh anything, so Blue doesn't complain.

She waits patiently, her backpack slung over one shoulder, as Noah fishes out his key and coaxes the door into opening. Blue unloads her prizes in the middle of the room, a safe distance away from all of Gansey's maps and books and dioramas, while Noah gets two spoons from the cupboard. Together they set up a makeshift picnic on the concrete floor.

Blue nibbles her way through the various things she's bought and Noah nibbles on his spoon. He likes watching her expressions shift as she tries each one—her nose scrunching with disinterest or her eyelids drooping with pleasure, a catlike expression that would probably make him blush if he weren't dead.

When she gets to the mint jelly, she first holds it up to the light. It glows, jewel-like. Noah watches a spoonful of it vanish into the warm pink of her mouth, watches her jaw work as she chews and thinks, watches her lick her lips.

"I've never had mint jelly before," she says at last.

Noah cocks his head, pulling the spoon from his mouth so he can speak clearly. "How is it?"

In reply, Blue holds out the jar. Noah frowns and shakes his head; _no thank you_. Her outstretched arm pulls back a little and she frowns, thinking, before popping another spoonful into her mouth.

Noah watches her chew and swallow. "It tastes like Gansey," she says eventually, and then colors a little.

He stares at her for a moment, at her flyaway hair and color-splashed clothes, and then ducks forward to kiss her mouth.

Her lips go slack with surprise at first. Noah feels a flicker of anxiety, a brush of memory, before she kisses him back.

Noah scoots forward across the dusty floor until he's close enough to rest his hands on Blue's hips, feeling how her skin burns in comparison to his own. She leans her weight into his arms, trusting and thoughtless, near-boneless. He wishes his heart could skip a beat like it's supposed to. Instead he satisfies himself with closing his lips around the proud arch of her cupid's bow, gently, just to hear the soft noise she makes in response.

Eventually their lips part with a quiet, wet sound. Noah watches Blue until her eyes open, and then licks his lips.

"Oh," he murmurs. "It does taste like Gansey."

"Yeah."

Blue cuddles up against his side then, resting her head on his shoulder. Warm silence stretches between them.

 _I missed out on a lot when I was alive,_ Noah thinks.


End file.
